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He took it and flipped on the safety. “That’s it?” he teased. “One shot?”
“I need my hands free.”
And before he could even ask why, she put her hands on both sides of his face and kissed him.
Hunter sat at dinner and pushed his food around the plate. His brain had turned to mush. Criminals could storm the house right now, and he’d probably just sit here and watch them do it.
He kept thinking about Clare. Her hands in his hair. Her lips against his. Her mouth. Her fingers. The thin fabric of her dress, the warmth of her skin, the way he’d traced the freckles on her shoulders with his fingertips first, and then his tongue.
He’d almost missed dinner.
He wouldn’t have minded.
Clare had been the one to bring him back to reality, telling him she’d have to sprint for the house just to make it back before her mom got home from work. He’d barely made it home in time himself. The guns were still in the bottom of his backpack, waiting to be put back when his dad wouldn’t notice him going downstairs.
“Hunter?”
He dropped his fork. It clanked against the plate. His dad was staring at him intently. Hunter had to clear his throat. “Yeah?”
“I asked what happened to your face.”
Hunter stabbed a piece of grilled chicken for an excuse to look away. He’d checked the mirror when he got home, and there was a pretty decent bruise along his left cheek.
“Accident at school.”
“Those boys still hassling you?”
Hunter never knew how to answer that question. Did his dad want him to admit it? Or did he want to know Hunter could take care of himself? “Just guys being stupid. School’s almost out anyway, so . . .” He shrugged.
His mother tsked and reached out to put a hand over his.
Hunter pulled his hand away. No matter what his father meant, Hunter hated taking her sympathy in front of him.
“And the girl?” said his dad. “How are things there?”
Hunter almost choked on the piece of grilled chicken. “She’s great. Good. She’s good.”
“Girl?” said his mother. “There’s a girl?”
“It’s nothing,” said Hunter. He shoved another piece of chicken into his mouth.
“Learn anything yet?” said his father.
Yes. He’d learned that the world could narrow to a single breathless moment when he was kissing Clare.
He met his father’s gaze head-on. “Not yet.”
“Make sure you’re paying attention.” His father stood to take his plate to the sink and dropped a kiss on his wife’s head. “Thank you for dinner, darling.”
Hunter watched this and wondered about Uncle Jay’s warning last night. It seemed like a direct contradiction to the whole use them before they use you.
Then again, he kept thinking about Clare’s question in front of the gun locker, about the fact that his mom’s birth date wasn’t part of the combination. It was such a minor, inconsequential thing—but it felt like such a big thing when combined with that harsh warning.
His father doted on his mother. Hunter watched it every day. They really were the most unlikely pair—his mom even commented on it to strangers with a laugh. How the die-hard military man had fallen for the New Age neo-Wiccan.
But for the first time, Hunter started to wonder if what looked like doting was really . . . tolerance. Indulgence.
As soon as he had the thought, Hunter shoved it out of his head. They’d been together for seventeen years. They never fought. He’d never questioned their love for each other, because their love for him was an unwavering constant.
